A Word That Starts With 'K'
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Jim spends March 17th in Dublin. But he's not exactly the type to be found drinking green beer at the parade. It takes a little more than that to drag him back there, over and over, every year. - Nasty little speed-write, since I was denied the pleasure of green beer at the parade. A companion to 'Eighteen', in a way.


As soon as Jim gets off the plane at Heathrow he switches his phone back on. Always dreads doing that. Twenty-four hours of correspondence all landing in at once, it's sickening. This one day, this one time, every single year, there's a moment where he could happily dump the bloody thing in the nearest bin, pick another plane and get on it. Maybe just keep picking planes, stay in airports, chase the time zones, lose enough hours that the moment would never come round again, because Christ only knows what would happen then. Like every year, he fights through it. It's a bit more difficult, actually, than it has been before. There's so much of it. More missed calls than usual too, rather than just the usual texts and emails. But then again, in previous years there hasn't been anybody waiting for him. All the calls are from Moran and Danielle. They weren't a factor last year. In fact, until this moment he never thought of them.

He steps out of arrivals, just in time to see the car he booked get scabbed by some brass-neck wag with hair down to her arse and a handbag that wouldn't get on as hand luggage. Too far away to stop her, swears to himself and resigns to it; that's the day. Some people have Friday 13th, and he pities those people, because they get two or three, and all scattered down through the year. Jim, not that he believes in bad luck or anything, has the 17th and 18th of March, without fail. Has done for… closer ten years than five anyway. That's awful, isn't it? He should remember. He should know it in days, in hours, in minutes, never mind forgetting just how many years it's been since… Not that he believes in karma or anything.

So he rings for a cab and, in the meantime, counts up eight calls from Dani and three from Moran. Decides Moran is the one to ring back first.

"Wahey," is the greeting he gets, "and the dead arose and returned the calls of many!"

"Don't exaggerate."

"You with your phone off? No, no, I'd never exaggerate. Just thought the other three horsemen'd be sticking their heads in by this morning. Where've you been?"

"Dublin."

"Oh." That's an awful word. Innocuous and too bland to matter, normally, but when it's just 'oh' and all on its own and followed by silence…

"Did something happen yesterday? You were trying to get hold of me, I see."

"Anniversary of a load of snakes turning lemming."

"Beg pardon?" Of course, Jim recognizes the reference. St Patrick's Day. The legend about why there are no snakes on that other island. Fine. But that's it got to do with Moran, or all the phone calls?

"Me and Dani, we were being culturally sensitive. Came to take you out, get you pissed. That's what it's for, that holiday, isn't it?"

Yeah, for some. For those who take it as a holiday, that's a fair description of St Patrick's Day. But that's only if the 17th doesn't already mean something to you, if the date's not taken up already with some other observance. Nobody ever thinks of that. It's like Christmas. There must be people out there for whom December 25th is primarily a birthday or a release, a date on a ticket. An anniversary. But there's none of that he says out loud, just yet. Moran, never comfortable with silence, goes on, "You should probably let Dani know you're alive, actually. She's convinced you have Irish friends we don't know about and drank yourself into a session with a stomach pump yesterday."

"That's not what happened."

He had a drink, yes. Couple of them. And getting up to get to the airport this morning was… troublesome. But it was nothing to do with patron saints and arbitrary excuses, nothing like that. Would have been better if it was. Green pints with the rest of the country, some twat pretending he can Riverdance on a bar, girls in shamrock deelyboppers everywhere, that would have been nice, actually, for once. Jim's actually found he misses St Patrick's Day, since the meaning of it changed. Never much liked it to begin with but… Maybe it's just because he can't have it anymore. Isn't that always what makes things look better?

And Moran, with rare insight and an even rarer flash of sentimentality says, "Do you need a lift?"

"Yes, please."

So Jim goes back inside and gets himself a coffee, finally gets the day's papers. He wanted to get them at Dublin, as something to read on the flight if nothing else. But every time he looked over at the stand, the local front pages were blaring at him, whatever the headline, front page images of yesterday's parties and parades. He used to fly back to London on the same day, for pretty much this same reason. But airports on St Patrick's Day are not good places to be in a bad mood. Not good places to be, full stop. There's always some fecker who'll dab green paint on your nose and tell you to smile.

But that's all behind him, for another year. He concentrates on London news and coffee and steeling himself for the rest of the day. The only thing that really holds his attention, really interests him, is what Moran said happened yesterday. They went round, he said. To surprise him, clearly, since Jim knew nothing about it. He's not used to surprises. He always assumed he didn't like them, but he thinks about that one and what it might have been like if he'd been at home and maybe he shouldn't be so black-and-white about it. Certain kinds of surprise are necessarily awful but…

Anyway, then his phone rings and it's Moran, who isn't a cab and therefore can't park. The pick-up is done very much on the hoof and with an eye to Heathrow traffic control. Jim's never run foul of them himself, but Danielle can't fail to come back from a job in America or on the continent with a new rant to go on. So it's the overnight bag slung in the back seat, sliding into the front even as the car starts moving again, and Moran saying, "Alright?"

"Fine, thanks." It's all he can think to say. There's no wit, and more disturbingly, there's no distraction. No attempt to fend off the questions that are undoubtedly going to follow.

"You should have told us you were going, mate," is the harmless, thoughtful lead-in.

"And it never occurred to you I might have gone home? Who else is going to take my dear old Ma to see the parade and get her home before the fights start?"

Moran nods, honest and chastised. With dignity, "You're absolutely right. You never talk about back there, see? That's probably all it was."

It's such a calm, straightforward acceptance that something nasty and unfamiliar starts niggling, gnawing something sore and important and Jim shakes his head. "Sorry, Moran, that was bollocks… I… I never went home. Ma probably doesn't know if I'm alive or dead. Never went near the parade."

Moran stays quiet as long as he dares. Expecting more to follow. Jim can feel that, and is grateful for the fact that he holds his tongue, gives that time. But the longer it goes on the easier it would be to just ignore it, just to ask what him and Danielle got up too yesterday, if he's really safe to be driving, if there's some bright-eyed sod out there going home with a green tongue and cock, Christ, there are a thousand other things he could say, a thousand ways to move this on and Moran won't ask, but he just lets the quiet go on too long until Moran prompts, "_So_…?"

"Nothing. Not important. I go every year. Laying flowers, that's all."

"Ah, right. I'm sorry to hear it, mate. Must have been somebody special."

"Why do you say that?"

That was too quick, too raw. Moran knows better than to pause or equivocate, says, "Because it's not like you. If a thing's not coming back it's not like you to give it any attention at all."

On the surface, it doesn't require any answer. It is plain and blunt and Jim respects that. But he just can't bear the thought of Moran going away from this with the wrong impression. 'Special'. It's the right word, but not how he means it. And if he goes away and tells Danielle that, that's them both lied to and Jim's hardly had to open his mouth. It's nothing to do with a heart's burden or misunderstanding or not wanting to deceive but… But the man in the grave with the flowers on it doesn't deserve it. All the quiet respect and acceptance and the support, Jim doesn't want it and sure as hell doesn't want it over that rotting, rotten bastard.

Says aloud, "Yeah, well, you never forget your first, do you?"

"Aha, no, you most _certainly_ do n… Wait, hold on. I'm not following. First what?"

"Oh, cheers, Moran. Yeah, that makes me feel great, that one does…"

"But what were you talking about it, first what?"

And now, somehow, when it comes to the crux and actually saying it, Jim can't form the word itself. Starts with K. Rhymes with a word that means 'not moving'. _Not_ an unfamiliar word, in conversations between the two of them. But this time, today, it won't be spoken. "First…" he tries. Then relents, "Served him right, when you think about it, given he was the one taught me how… First… Yours was probably at war. Dani's was probably self-defence. First and only, really. That was really thought about and meant, I mean."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You wouldn't have mourned."


End file.
